Interlude
by Alison Ocean
Summary: What happens immediately after Crane and Mills return from Fredericks' Manor? How are they there for each other? Some Ichabbie friendship fluff.
1. Coming Home

The door to the musty archives gave under Abbie's weight with a reluctant groan, and she shouldered her way through the narrow doorframe into the pitch black space. She had to blink rapidly to try and focus her eyes on anything in the darkness. By the slivers of December moonlight leaking through the fog clouds that hovered just beyond the room's several Dutch windows, she could faintly make out the bulky shapes of scattered books and overturned files sprinkled across the long oak table that stretched across almost half the space. She couldn't see farther into the room than their soft shadows, but she knew that beyond that solid conference table was a row of bookshelves, as well as an ancient wooden podium. The vaulted ceiling meant a strong draft coming in this late at night, but the large fireplace in one corner of the room could quickly remedy the chill. Soft chairs lined the space at different intervals; each a different style from a different era, but all welcoming to her at the moment. She was bone-weary, not to mention emotionally exhausted from spending a hellacious day trapped – yes, _trapped_ – in a damn colonial haunted house. Her eyes felt sore from staying open so long, and her throat dry from yelling. Physically, she felt ready to drop. But she couldn't succumb to her weariness just yet – there were bigger problems in the room than hers at the moment. After fumbling for a lamp in the dark and managing to click it on, she cast a glance over her shoulder, to double-check that said problems were still behind her where she'd left them. With relief, she saw that Ichabod had followed her lead to the archives, without her needing to grab his hand and drag him along. For a moment she'd thought she would have to, considering how unresponsive he'd been on the drive over to the precinct.

Captain Irving had been all too willing to let Crane sit in the car so as not to terrify the civilians moving in and out of the precinct, even at this time of night. That was without even mentioning the on-duty cops working at their desks inside. It would be all too easy, with the sheer amount of blood decorating every inch of his apparel, to label Crane as a serial killer that, having just finished his bloodiest spree, had come to either turn himself in or blow up the police station – you know, "go out with a bang" and all that. She wouldn't have blamed anyone for screaming after one look at him.

_She_ certainly wanted to scream at him. But not in fear. Oh, no. Among the many strong emotions bubbling away inside her tired skull, Abbie was straight-up pissed. Not an uncommon occurrence for her when dealing with Crane, but this was different than any fleeting irritation she'd ever experienced towards him before. She wanted to yell at him for doing something so stupid – taking on a dangerous and powerful 300-plus-year-old demon _alone_. It peeved her to no end how he had all but shoved her to the sidelines while he risked his life in one of Moloch's metaphorical (or literal) snake pits. The only thing that had kept her from following him into that house again was his astonishing conviction when he'd urged her to stay outside, alone.

_Damn_. She swore internally just thinking about his expression when he'd all but growled at her, "Heed my words: Do_ not _follow me." The expression on his face had been more than anger, though he'd had a right to be livid. It had been pain itself – a hurt so deep, and also so familiar to her. The demon, Moloch, and his scarecrow pawn had destroyed yet another aspect of Ichabod's life tonight. They had stolen away his opportunity to be a father to he and Katrina's son, as well as anything else that his life could have been in the 1700s, before he'd been killed by Moloch's horseman of death. Now that he'd been (ironically) resurrected along with the horseman, it seemed to her that he had only suffered blows of grief and regret from his former life. This news of a son topped all other wounds suffered so far. And that was where Abbie's anger could reach no farther. She could not look this man in the eye and stay mad at him for risking his life, albeit stupidly – not when he had lost so much, all in a few short hours.

She knew how it felt to be lost; alone. To feel like one small, microscopic incident had sucked away everything that you'd known to be good and right in your life. She'd managed to overcome the demons of her past, with Crane and Sheriff Corbin's invaluable help. It surprised her, now, how helpless she felt to help Crane overcome his own sorrows.

After Crane had finally emerged from the dilapidated manor soaked in blood and reeking of plant mold, it had been a tense drive back to base. He'd uttered one sentence, only one, since leaving. "I would like to go home now." He'd said that before folding himself into her Jeep, next to an already-terrified Lena Gilbert. The poor girl must have been frightened within an inch of her life just looking at Crane, but Abbie hadn't had the heart to ask him to move to the front seat or cover himself with the emergency blanket that she'd stored in the trunk. She would have given it to Lena, already, had the billionaire not already commandeered Crane's coat. It had taken some not-so-gentle urging on Abbie's part to get the clinging woman to surrender that stinking wool talisman before she had handed her over to Luke for questioning and follow-ups. But she'd known that Crane would feel even more lost without his ratty security blanket draped firmly over his own shoulders, just as it was now – exactly where she'd placed it moments before.

Crane _and_ his coat stood behind her, just over the threshold to their unofficial base of operations, looking very lost and alone. His typically critical, sometimes perplexed, and _always_ direct gaze had settled listlessly upon the long shadow he cast on the cherry wood floor, like a dust mote that had floated down, down, down into oblivion. Abbie wasn't sure whether she'd ever be able to bring him back to the surface of those transcendent blue eyes. But she'd be damned if she wasn't going to at least try.

Step one was easy: she needed to get him cleaned up, _pronto_.

_I would like to go home now_, he had said. Well alrighty, then. Abbie took a cleansing breath and squared her shoulders. She did an about-face, clicked off the lamp, and marched back out the archive door into the still December night, shooing Crane ahead of her as she went.

"Changed my mind – we're gonna do this somewhere else." She muttered as she clicked her Jeep unlocked. The car beeped in response, and Abbie watched Crane out of the corner of her eye as she walked around to the driver's side.

"This?" he asked hollowly, not dead enough to the world to miss the key word in the sentence.

"You'll see." Abbie kept her response vague. She didn't want him objecting – or bolting on her – before he was in the car.

Maybe it was the cold, or the blood decorating his shirt like macabre confetti streams, but Crane's face stood out as starkly pale to her tonight; the circles under his eyes seemed more pronounced, as well. It was altogether difficult to tell, however, considering most of his face and hair were still matted with blood. _Crap…I should have wiped that off before it dried. _Abbie griped internally. Good thing that there was a sink and a washing machine where they were headed.

Crane watched numbly as she climbed into the driver's seat, before stiffly opening his door and climbing in himself. The biting cold had seeped into the vehicle already, though they'd only been gone a couple minutes at most. Teeth chattering, Abbie started the engine and cranked up the heater to its highest setting before strapping on her seatbelt. Just before pulling away from the curb, some instinct made her look over at Crane. His head was bowed, eyes downcast. The picture of Sir Johnny Raincloud, sitting in her front seat. Sitting without a seat belt. Abbie gave him a withering look, which went unacknowledged, before reaching across him to grab his seatbelt. Ichabod raised his eyes immediately, seeming surprised to see her arm cross inches from his face, but he didn't comment on it.

"Remember, you always got to buckle up." Abbie said, using her soft voice, as she held out the belt to him. She hadn't thought it possible in his present state, but the look he slid her held some of the old 18th century testiness that he was _always_ lathering on liberally - in his responses to her _and_ to the modern world in general. It gave her a welcome glimmer of hope - that maybe he would come out of this alright. He was a strong man, after all. There was a chance that, despite her clumsy attempts at reassurance, he might actually feel better after a little recovery time.

She could see him mentally decide whether it was worth it to debate the need for the seatbelt, then eventually decide that no, it wasn't. With a heavy sigh, he grasped the belt with his thumb and index finger and primly inserted it into the buckle. He then returned his eyes to their downcast, aimless stare.

Abbie waited until she was safely pulled away from the sidewalk and heading in the right direction before breaking the thick silence again.

"You gonna give me the silent treatment all night?" She tried, half-teasing. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shiver. _Shit_. He may be going into shock. If that was the case, she needed to get him home and in bed _soon_. Some food in him wouldn't hurt either. He shook again, more violently this time. Abbie divided her attention as best she could between him and the road.

"Talk to me, Crane."

It felt like years before he finally answered.

"There's…nothing to talk about, Lieutenant." His throat sounded dry; parched, and she could hear every shiver in his voice. Still, his breathing looked steady, and she was sure that if she took his pulse, it would be, too.

"Isn't there?" She glanced at him as she pulled into the driveway of a compact parking lot abutting a squat, 3-story building. The outside of the building was painted a neutral doeskin beige, and a path of freshly-laid red bricks lead up to both of its main entrances. A far too touristy-looking wooden sign swung on a pole at the head of the parking lot. It read _Sleepy Hill Apartments_ in flourishing cursive letters. Just below that sign, a more dispensable plastic sign had been erected stating _NOW LEASING ONE- AND TWO-BEDROOM APARTMENTS. APPLY ONLINE AT _.org__. _Ichabod glanced around in confusion - the first time he'd seemed interested in his surroundings since their return to the precinct.

"Where are we?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned. Abbie dared to smile drily.

"Oh, you'll see."

She parked and hopped out of the car, nearly jogging around the hood in her haste to get Crane out of the car and somewhere warm. Of course he was already getting out by the time she reached his side. She watched his face carefully as he stood and closed the door behind him. He looked white as a sheet, and was visibly trembling, and he pulled his coat more closely around his shoulders as he stared up at the quaint little rows of apartments in uncertainty.

"Come on." She urged him forward, keeping careful pace at his elbow. If he keeled over, she wanted to be in the right position to catch 'His Royal Tallness' before he hurt himself. _That is, hurt himself more, _she thought with a wry twist of her lips. Luckily, the lobby would be unmanned at this hour of the night. She might be able to slip him past without anyone noticing; bloodstains and all.

Abbie briefly grasped Crane's forearm as she directed him through the glass double-doors at the front of the building. His skin was like ice, and she couldn't help glancing up worriedly after she'd released him. He noticed, and a paltry eyebrow rose, despite himself.

"Is something wrong, Miss Mills? You are studying me as if I've acquired lapine ears and am preparing, at any moment, to commence a jig."

"Believe me, Crane, I'd be looking much more terrified if I thought you were about to start dancing."

Abbie momentarily stopped short, looking between the elevator and the stairs for an immeasurable time. Crane stopped, too, though he didn't look at her in curiosity, as he normally would. He just glanced at the wall. Under the crappy fluorescent lights he looked like a very weary, albeit extremely attractive, serial killer. Or serial killer's ghost, more likely.

Finally, Abbie decided that he probably wasn't physically up for any new experiences today. And she wasn't up for explaining how elevators worked, in detail. She wasn't sure she even really knew how an elevator worked, in detail, but that was a conversation for another time. She quickened her pace as she led him to the stairs.

"Your skin is freezing." She continued the conversation as they rounded the first floor stairwell. "You're probably in shock."

"I beg your pardon? Wouldn't I be the only person with the authority to confirm that diagnosis?"

"Well your opinion wouldn't be much help if you actually _were_ in shock." She returned. He bristled and pulled his coat more tightly around him. _Thank god I'm on the second floor_. Abbie pulled open the stairwell door. Crane passed through without complaint, which was a testament in itself that something was not right. He never let others hold doors for him; it went against his polite, English breeding. And to be honest, the opening-doors treatment tended to make her feel pretty special – not to mention ladylike.

She briskly marched up to the door marked _206_, Crane in tow, and fumbled her key into the lock.

"Is this where you _live_?" Crane asked, glancing cursorily up and down the short and narrow hallway.

"Not just me…" Abbie muttered as she shoved the stiff door open. She felt Crane follow her silently inside, and she waved him aside so that she could shut the door behind them both and slide the dead bolt home.

For a moment it was just her and Crane in the darkness, their combined breathing the only sounds in the apartment. Abbie stepped around him, feeling for the kitchen light switch. She'd just found it when the lamp in the front room switched on with a small 'click'. The more ominous click of a handgun followed immediately. Abbie spun at the sound, hand on her holster, only to find herself staring down the barrel of Jenny's Glock 23. Crane, who'd been all but a zombie moments before, had moved in a second to half-shield Abbie with his body and had wrapped his right arm protectively across her torso to hold her behind him. Abbie could feel every muscle in his body tensed like a spring. Lucky for them, the only enemy in the room was Jenny's hyperactive trigger finger.

"Jesus, Abbie!" Jenny gasped. From around Crane's broad back, Abbie saw her sister immediately disable the firearm and click the safety on. She hastily laid it on the front room table, then thought better of it and picked it up again, shoving it under her belt. Abbie had never actually seen Jenny flustered before, but this came pretty close.

"I, uh…I thought that you were…um…" Jenny trailed off and her eyes grew huge as she got an eyeful of Crane, in all his bloody glory.

"Whoa." She remarked, impressed. Her eyes immediately slid to Abbie, silently demanding an explanation.

"It is a _long_ story." Abbie interjected.

"Miss Jenny." Crane let out a breath that Abbie hadn't noticed he'd been holding. "You are..." he looked down at Abbie, then back at Jenny, "…_sharing _quarters with your sister, in light of your recent release from the sanatorium? Or is this simply a social call that I've intruded upon?"

Jenny wryly made a gun with her index finger and thumb, and made a clicking sound-effect with her tongue as she pointed it at Crane. "The first one. Though if she didn't pick up my _tofurkey_ _slices today_," she took a few steps forward as she spoke, "then we will be having a serious sister-to-sister chat about my new living arrangements." She winked at Abbie, who grunted unappreciatively at the sarcasm.

Abbie noticed (and hoped Jenny didn't) that Crane's stance hadn't changed from puppy-guarding her. Of course Jenny immediately noticed. Her eyebrows hit the ceiling.

"Easy, brit – I'm not gonna bite her. She is my only sister after all."

Abbie took the moment to begin shoving her way out from under Crane's surprisingly strong arm, before her sister's imagination could get any more out of hand.

"Look, sorry about the mess." She threw a pointed look at Crane and then back at her sister. "We were just, ah…" She shoved harder against Crane's arm. He seemed to suddenly notice what she was doing and relaxed his tense posture…only to sway dangerously to the right. _Woah_. Abbie pressed herself firmly up against his side in what she hoped was a nonchalant way, in an effort to keep him upright. Her left arm cinched around his waist. "…ah, going to use the washer and dryer real quick." She snagged Crane's right arm and looped it over her shoulders, just to be safe. He seemed…pretty unfazed by the fact that she was helping him stand up. That was not like him, and it worried her. _Maybe he's just tired_, she rationalized as her sister eyed them both skeptically.

"Uh-huh…I'm really convinced." With an eye-roll for Abbie's benefit, Jenny immediately skirted to Crane's other side.

"Give me your arm." She commanded with her hand out. Her tone brooked no argument. Abbie was impressed when Crane, without protest, allowed Jenny to drape his right arm over her shoulders.

"What the hell happened, anyways?" she asked Abbie as they half-led, half-dragged Ichabod to the fold-out couch nearby.

"Well…"

"A scarecrow-like creature…_demon_…a servant of Moloch. He attacked…my wife. And…my…" It sounded like each word was being ripped from Crane's gut. Abbie couldn't take the agony in his voice.

"Shhh." She shushed him as they lowered him to the couch. "Don't waste energy talking."

"But…miss Jenny is entitled to the knowledge…"

"_Miss Jenny_ can hear all about it later." Abbie interrupted him. "For now, just shut up." He looked even paler than before, and there was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead.

"So help me, Crane, if you faint on me I am _not_ catching you." She muttered, almost to herself, as she lifted his coat off his shoulders.

"T'would be _very_ ambitious of you to even attempt such a maneuver, considering your size and stature compared to mine." Crane commented drily.

"Don't go insulting my height, either. I still have a gun." She warned him. She won a weak smile and a reluctant chuckle for that one.

"I'll go get some water." Jenny interrupted, loudly, before walking down the hall to the bathroom.

Abbie deftly replaced Ichabod's coat with the warm fleece throw that lay over the sofa back. For shock victims, staying warm meant a quicker recovery.

"You're worried."

Abbie looked up to find blue eyes focused on her face. She shrugged under the scrutiny.

"No more than usual."

"'Usual' being your worry over the imminent return of Moloch along with the four –"

"Hold still."

He stopped short when Abbie grabbed his head with both hands to hold it still while she looked at him more closely.

She let go just long enough to shuck her leather jacket on the armchair nearby and push up her sleeves.

Sitting on the couch, Crane was easily a good two feet shorter than Abbie, and she took full advantage of the fact. She briskly felt through his tangled hair, searching for any glass shards or debris that may have caught. She was definitely _not _indulging her secret fantasy of running her hands through his dark-brown curls. The strands were surprisingly soft to her touch, despite being matted with blood in some areas.

"What could you _possibly_ be doing?" Crane asked as if he wasn't really expecting an answer. _Well he's gonna get one_.

"Checking for glass and lacerations." She replied, brushing his bangs out of his face as she searched his brow for any cuts.

"…Oh."

He sounded genuinely surprised at her sound reasoning. Abbie tried not to let that miff her. She _was _enjoying herself, after all. If that didn't stink of ulterior motives, she wasn't sure what did.

After lingering for as long as thoroughness could excuse, she moved her hands to his chin. She carefully moved his face from side to side, looking past the blood spatter for any deep cuts and doing an impressive job of not making eye contact with the patient.

"Is this _truly necess_–"

"Yes." She answered, all-business. She continued her inspection, trying to avoid lingering on the high slope of his cheekbones, the straight bridge of his nose, his perfectly-shaped eyebrows, his _eyes_… Her own eyes kept stubbornly straying to his lips, mere inches from her own.

"I bet you didn't give Florence Nightingale such a fuss." She muttered to distract herself.

"I'm sorry, who?"

_Oops. Revolutionary War, Mills, not the Civil War. _"Sorry – forgot that she was _after_ your time." There was an awkward pause, during which she reluctantly dropped her hands. "Did the Revolutionary War have any famous nurses?"

"We had Martha Washington…" he said finally, "And of course the hundreds of young women who volunteered of their own volition to assist in the care of wounded militia. For most it was for the sake of the cause. That was just as true in Katrina's case…" He trailed off, eyes sad again.

Abbie sniffed and looked down. She cleared her throat and scratched a nonexistent itch on her nose. "Shit."

She looked back at him, hoping that her expression was as apologetic as she felt. Crane, however, was looking away from her; something across the room had apparently become very interesting to him.

Abbie exhaled wearily and straightened. She undid her gun belt, laying it and her smart phone on the table near the lamp

"Here." Jenny returned with a bowl of water, a rag, and a folded stack of clothes. Abbie looked up questioningly. Jenny shrugged. "He'll need something to wear while he's waiting for the washing machine." Abbie looked away to hide her blush. She felt a little stupid for not immediately realizing that obvious fact.

Jenny looked down at Ichabod before pulling Abbie a little ways away from the couch.

"He's not seriously hurt, right?" She whispered low in her ear. "I mean, I'm all for ghetto surgery on the kitchen table, but I couldn't even find the scissors in this madhouse –"

"No." Abbie held up a hand to stop that sentence. "He's not hurt." she whispered. She glanced at a shivering Crane, then amended, "Not _physically_, at least. He might be in sh–"

Her sister's loud, over-exaggerated yawn cut her off and ended the conversation. Abbie stepped away in surprise, wondering what Jenny's game was _now_.

"Welp," Jenny smirked, "I'd better be heading off to bed, then. I'm trying to get a tight twelve hours in, roomie!"

Abbie glared. _So transparent_. Jenny winked before turning to Crane. "Feel better, Icky." All she got for a reply was a martyred sigh. She snickered and sauntered off down the hall.

"_Goodniiiiiight!_" Jenny called in a sing-song voice before slamming her door.

With her scheming, double-crossing queen-of-the-awkward matchmakers sister out of the room, the apartment was once again thick with silence. Wasting no time, Abbie pulled her white pleather ottoman up to the couch. Using that as a seat, she placed the bowl of water and rag in her lap and scooted as close to Ichabod as she dared. His eyes were trained on the floor, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion and sadness. He was drowning again. It was an ache in her chest that she couldn't seem to keep him from his sadness for very long – mere seconds at a time. She wrung out the rag and began gently dabbing his face, starting at his forehead.

Startled, he pulled away from her.

"Miss Mills, you needn't –"

"I'm just trying to get the worst of this blood off." She held up both hands – one holding the wet rag – in a surrender position. "After I get the worst of these stains off of your face, this will be completely your problem. I promise." There was a moment of tense quiet. Then Crane looked up through his lashes with a beleaguered expression.

"You really needn't bother." He said the words quietly, but they held such sincerity that Abbie felt a suspicious pricking at the back of her eyes. She blinked a few times. When she looked back up a single, solitary tear has streaked its way down Crane's cheek. It was only one, but it left a scar-like trail through the blood splattered on his face. She saw him visibly swallow all of his other tears, and her heart broke for him. She scooted closer, and slowly reached up to wipe the blood, as well as the tear mark, from his cheek.

"And why not?" she asked as she sponged at the red.

He straightened and cleared his throat, pulling the fleece blanket around himself.

"It was never your duty as a fellow witness to take care of me. I am adequately acclimated to this century as to sufficiently handle myself and my needs."

"I never said you weren't!" Abbie quipped gently, a hint of scolding in her voice. Crane looked at her then, straight-on. His light blue eyes seared, like he was seeing her in a new light and debating what to make of it.

It felt to Abbie like if she made one wrong move, this fragile moment would shatter into a thousand pieces. So she continued with caution.

"I let you take care of me once." She reminded him quietly. That damned ornery eyebrow rose in reply.

"You _know_ it's true!" she chided, tapping him lightly on the arm. He raised both eyebrows then, still unconvinced. However, he humbly dropped his eyes. It was an easy tell; he knew what she was talking about.

Abbie smiled and looked down in contemplation. "You were strong when I needed someone strong to lean on."

She dipped the rag back into the bowl and watched the crimson tendrils spiral and sink in the water. "You didn't let me down."

Old shames had her ducking her head. "Now, I know…that…my track record for being someone that people can depend on when times get rough is not…exactly stellar. _But_," she forced herself to raise her head, though her eyes stayed down, "for once…"

Crane moved to speak and she held up a hand to stop him,

"for _once_, Crane. Let me at least try to be there for you."

She wrung out the rag and swiped determinedly at the space above his right eye; speech over.

"It is impossible to try at something that has long been a mastered skill."

Abbie scoffed. "Please." She swabbed his other cheek, and pulled back to take a look at his hair. _Eck. _

"You know…" she wheedled, "I think I gonna let _you _take care of all…_this_." She made a broad gesture to the top of his head. Crane, looking offended, raised his hand up to feel the loose strands.

"But for now, you _got_ to let me wash those clothes." As she spoke she turned and grabbed the pile Jenny had left. Heat rushed to her face when she realized that the black sweatpants and long-sleeved, gray army shirt belonged to one of her exes, Brian. She hadn't seen him in nearly two years, and had been sure that nothing in her apartment belonged to him or any of her other exes (there weren't many).

But two weeks living here and her sister had already found some of his old sweats. _Dammit, Jenny…where the hell did you find these?_ Abbie made a mental note to burn the items after Crane was done with them.

"Here, go to the bathroom and put these on." She turned and tossed them to him and pointed down the hallway. "Last door on the right. If you take a shower, make sure the water's hot, okay? There's shampoo and soap and everything if you want to use them."

"Right…thank you." Crane stood slowly, immediately dwarfing Abbie. She'd almost forgotten their height difference while he'd been sitting on her couch. He gave a short bow before heading down the hall.

"Hold up." Abbie's voice grabbed him before he reached the end of the hallway. He turned politely at her request. Yet Abbie could see him beginning to crumble again – all the horrible images of tonight being splashed across his eyes like a never-ending film reel.

"You can leave your boots by the bathroom door." was all she said. She saw him nod before she turned and headed to the kitchen.


	2. New Scratches

_Oh my gosh…oh my gosh…_

Abbie blew into the kitchen and immediately began pacing. The mirror on the wall by the door marked her progress, flashing a dim reflection of her with every pass she made by it.

"Ugh." she stopped her pacing to stare at her reflection. She saw a tired, worried girl. Countless nutmeg strands wisped outwards from her half-up hairstyle and her rubber band was falling out. She cringed as she tried to smooth the strands, before eventually giving up and submitting herself to grossness. It's not like she was trying to impress anyone. She grimaced again.

"'_You can leave your boots by the bathroom door'?!"_She quoted herself incredulously. "That's great, Mills. Just great. Man's lost a son and almost all trust in his wife in one night, is _covered _in nasty plant blood, possibly in shock, more likely seriously depressed, could probably use a hug, and _that_'s what you leave him with?" _Man, come on…_

She took a deep breath through her nose. Then let it out.

"Okay, okay, okay…" She mumbled. "First thing's first."

She marched out of the kitchen, through the front room, and into the cramped paneled hall. Her booted feet made no sound on the long burgundy rug.

She hesitated in front of the last door on the right. A thin stream of light from under the door provided the only illumination in the hall. It was enough to see the door by, but little else. The white paint had a few chips, and the door knob stuck, she knew. All she could hear from inside was the monotonous splattering of the shower. She moved forward half a step and raised her hand to knock, when her foot ran into something in the dark. She crouched down the find an impeccably folded stack of bloody clothing, sitting adjacent to a tall pair of very muddy black boots. She grinned wryly in the dark and picked up the clothes. She moved the boots to the front door, and threw the rest of everything in the washing machine. Before starting the cycle she changed into a pair of comfy navy blue sweats and a light blue v-neck tee. She tossed her nasty mud-caked clothes in too, topped the whole thing off with a potentially-fatal dose of detergent, and slammed the lid shut. She hesitated before pressing the _Delicate/Handwash _option on the dial.

It would just be the cherry on top of this situation for her washing machine's turbo cycle to shred Crane's only change of clothes.

Before heading to the front room, she dug around in her sock drawer, finally unearthing two pairs of large wool socks. She slipped on one pair, and chucked the other at the bathroom door as she passed.

"Those are for you!"

She didn't hear a response, but then, she hadn't expected one.

Abbie had pulled out the fold-out couch and rolled out a couple of blankets and pillows, and was shaking the last of the paint chips out of her hair (compliments of decaying colonial wallpaper - that and the fact that she'd kicked through two of the walls herself) when she noticed that she could no longer hear the shower. Irrational dread coiled in her gut and she stood up immediately, listening. She didn't know how it happened, but the next moment she was down the hall, in front of the white door with the chipping paint, her hand raised to knock. Her knuckles came down. _One…two…three… _She knocked very lightly on the solid wood.

"…Crane…?"

She tentatively laid her ear against the door. All she could detect from the inside was a low sound that faded and swelled. Breathing? She knocked again.

"You okay?"

She mentally face-palmed. _Of _course _he's not 'okay'. _

"I'll just be a moment." His voice sounded clear enough; stronger than it had been earlier that evening.

Abbie let out a breath. "Alright…take your time."

The beeping of the washing machine from its closet made her jump. "I'll just...go check that." she murmured and scurried off.

She'd just set the dryer when she heard the fold-out couch creaking. She waited a minute before squeezing through the narrow threshold and shutting the door quietly behind her.

Abbie found Crane standing, straight-backed as ever, on the opposite side of the narrow mattress. He'd rolled the sleeves of the gray t-shirt up to his elbows. _They were probably too short_, she guessed. His back was to her with one arm crossed over the other, and Abbie knew that if she was standing in front of him she would see his right hand pensively cradling his chin. He appeared transfixed by the only framed photo that the wall boasted.

Abbie knew the photo well – it was one of the only personal pictures she owned, and the only one currently displayed on her wall. The photo showed her and her police academy graduating class, all dressed in blue polyester slacks and light blue collared shirts, holding their certificates and smiling like genuine rookies. It was so utterly cheesy, she hadn't been able to resist framing it and keeping it forever.

"Ah, memory lane." she embellished. Crane actually started at the sound of her voice.

"Indeed." He turned to face her and gestured to the picture.

"That's you from five years ago."

She nodded in appreciation.

His gaze swiveled between her and the photo. "And your aesthetic appearance has hardly changed since." he observed. Abbie snorted.

"Well, thank you. Five years doesn't nearly beat your record, but I'll take it." She cracked a smile, and was hoping to get the same from Crane. He simply turned back to face the photo.

Abbie raised her eyebrows once, then let it drop. She walked over to the kitchen to grab a granola bar and a bottle of Lipton sweet tea. It was all she had that even resembled tea, so that would have to do for now.

"I see that Detective Morales was also in your graduating class." she heard from the front room.

"Yup." answered as she crossed back to the couch. Ichabod turned around, perplexed.

"But you in your five years have achieved the rank of Lieutenant, while he is still a detective? Did not your captain indicate that detective is of lower rank than five years would excuse?"

"Well…" Abbie drew out the word. "Luke has always been content where he is. He considers detective work to be…its own sort of category, in a way. He and the other detectives are sometimes handed different responsibilities, more complex assignments, than those of us who pull higher rank."

"More complex than defeating Moloch the arch demon, the horseman of death, and a vast plethora of other calamities?" Crane asked incredulously.

Abbie shrugged. "Whatever makes you feel special, I guess."

There was a half-second of silence. And then Crane actually burst out laughing. Abbie's jaw dropped, but only for a moment before she joined him. They both laughed until their sides hurt. Crane laughed when Abbie kept laughing, and whenever Abbie looked at Crane: barely supporting himself above the fold-out mattress, holding his stomach with laughter, decked-out in her ex-boyfriend's army sweats and looking like a disheveled Jesus with his hair down, another round of hysterics started.

Eventually both of them sat, shaky and gasping, on opposite sides of the mattress.

"Whoo!" Abbie exhaled. Crane smiled at her as he panted.

"Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly when she'd caught her breath. "Almost forgot."

She bent down to retrieve the granola bar and bottled tea from the floor. Sitting back up, she endeavored to keep a straight face while she lobbed the first at Crane's shoulder.

"Eat this." she bit out, trying to keep from laughing. The granola bar bounced off his elbow and landed on a pillow. Crane turned in surprise, looking dumbfounded that she was now throwing food at him. Abbie lost it, dissolving into giggles as she slumped over on the mattress.

"Is this some brand of desiccated biscuit?" She sat up and saw him carefully lifting a crunchy bar from the wrapper.

"It's called a granola bar. You eat it…"

"Yes, thank you for that clarification." He interrupted testily.

Abbie continued, nonplussed. "…and it gives you energy, vitamins, whole grains – all of that good stuff." She held out her other hand. "And here's your tea." Still eyeing the granola bar, Crane reached out his other hand to take the bottle. The action made Abbie notice two dark, crimson lines forming on the right side of his chest.

"Oh my god." She was immediately on her feet and rushing around to his side of the couch.

"What? Oh…" Crane followed her gaze down to the two marks. "They must have reopened."

"So that thing _did _slash you." Abbie said, peeved. It was not a question but a statement.

"Well yes, but only _scratches_." Crane rejoined. "They closed up nearly an hour ago, and as I ascertained nearly the moment they were inflicted, they need no stitch." He looked down at her like she was overreacting by even acknowledging the wounds. Maybe she was. Then again, maybe not.

"Show me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me. Come on." she held out her hand for his shirt.

He looked scandalized. "You cannot be serious."

"It's not like I haven't seen you missing some clothing before." Abbie pointed out. At _that _he actually blushed.

"That was different. Given the immediacy of the circumstances, together with your incontestable mortal imperilment, there were little to no other alternatives at the time."

Abbie brought her open palm closer to his chest, waiting. "Then let me make it easier for you by telling you right now that there are _no_ alternatives to you showing me those cuts." When he didn't move, she leaned closer to him. She could see him struggling to maintain his composure as she invaded his personal space. It gave her an odd sort of satisfaction to make him squirm, even if it was only the tiniest amount. Her smile was sugar-sweet. "And heed _my _words when I tell you this: if you think Ro'kenhronteys was incontestable, you should see me on a bad day."

A hint of steel flashed in Crane's eyes as he identified the challenge her words held. Abbie saw a muscle jump in his jaw, and he squared his shoulders as he met her stare. For a moment they stared each other down – Crane determinedly attempting to single-handedly uphold years of societal tradition, not to mention noble breeding; Abbie, refusing to back down out of pure stubbornness. It was just as well for her that Crane didn't see the frankly absurd amount of quivering going on in her stomach. The longer she maintained eye contact with her fellow "capital-W" witness, the more if felt like a butterfly massacre was being committed in her gut. After a few tense seconds Crane leaned away from her, snapping the connection between them like a tangible rubber band.

"Fine." he bit out from between clenched teeth. He stood and began removing his shirt.

"If your primary pursuit in life is to exercise your talents at intimidation to influence me, then I will be the bigger man and avoid upheaval through capitulation."

"Just hold that thought, will you?" Abbie held up her index finger and ran to get the antibiotic cream from the bathroom cabinet.

"Alright," she began as she reentered the room, "just sit still and let's both get this over with."

"Hmph."

She ignored that and waited for him to stiffly take a seat on the edge of the mattress.

He sat, and her gaze immediately went to the slashes. Both were parallel, slanting upwards towards his shoulder. Abbie swallowed. Both cuts lay just above a much larger, more ancient scar. She recognized it as the fatal wound given to Crane by the horseman's broadaxe more than two centuries ago. She, very carefully, placed her fingertips against Crane's bare shoulder as she leaned in for a closer look at the _unhealed_ wounds. She heard his intake of breath the second she touched him, but he remained still as stone.

The top laceration was the less serious of the two. It only spanned about five inches in length, and was very shallow – hardly bleeding at all. The lower one was slightly deeper and longer, spanning about seven inches. A slit of exposed, oxidized tissue peeked through the reopened scab. It oozed shining red with every pulse of Crane's heart. And his pulse was _flying_ - at least 95 BPM, she guessed. It was distracting. She glanced up at his taught chin.

"Are you okay?"

"Are you quite finished?" he retorted. She cast a withering look at his jaw and returned her attention to the cuts.

"Not just yet." She leaned back and grabbed the antibiotic cream from behind her. The water from the shower had cleaned the wounds already. Now they only needed disinfectant and bandaging. She braced her hand on his other shoulder while she applied a thin layer of cream to the first cut. Ichabod's hand clenched into a fist in his lap, and she felt the sinewy muscles of his shoulder twitch beneath her fingers.

When she leaned back a moment later to squeeze the cream for another application, she heard him exhale. He'd been holding his breath? Surely not…

She leaned in to apply a thicker layer of ointment to cut number two. She felt Crane stop breathing the second she touched skin; so suddenly that she almost deviated from her perfect application.

The realization that Crane was truly holding his breath, combined with her acute awareness of his rising pulse, made keeping her gaze on just the wounds suddenly very difficult. Her traitorous eyes kept trying to wander across to his muscular chest, to his other shoulder. Or down farther, to his flat abdominal muscles. His right pectoral was taut beneath her hand as she finally smoothed an extra-large adhesive bandage over both abrasions.

As soon as it was done, Abbie leaned away. _Is it a stuffy in here? _She felt a little light-headed, though she was sure that she _had_ been breathing. _It's just my close proximity to him_, she justified. She scooted even farther away, to the very end of the mattress, while Crane quickly replaced his shirt. He cleared his throat.

"Thank you."

Abbie shrugged and snatched up the antibiotic cream. "It's nothing. Just my basic first aid." She said as she capped the tube.

She fingered it in her lap while her eyes rested on the chair across the room. The butterflies in her stomach were quieting again. It was a welcome relief, but it left room for the tiredness had been dragging at her for the past hour and a half to come to a head. Vaguely, she wondered what time it was. Checking her watch felt like too much effort…

"Miss Mills…"

"Hm?" Crane's voice brought Abbie back to the present. She wasn't sure how long she'd been zoning out, but he hadn't moved, except to uncap his tea. Instead of drinking it, he was staring into it pensively.

"Why did Katrina not tell me…that she was with child?"

Abbie sighed. "I don't know, Crane." She answered honestly.

She blinked, and then struggled to unclose her eyelids. _Come on Mills, stay awake._ She fought off a yawn."I can't really imagine what she was thinking."

"Try, please."

She looked up then, surprised and needing to see his expression. He looked perfectly serious. Abbie faltered for a moment, not sure whether she'd understood him correctly.

"You want me…to tell you what I_ think_ your wife was thinking when she chose to keep this a secret from you?"

His silence was expectant; his eyes beseeching.

"How would _I_ know her better than you?" Abbie asked. "I've met her all of _one time_, and I've definitely never been married to her."

"Yes, but those circumstances may grant you some perspective where I was too _blinded_ to see." he whispered sharply. He twisted the cap back on the tea bottle in a restless motion.

Abbie was considering how to answer that when spoke again, his voice becoming even more impassioned with every word.

"I loved her ere I courted her, and when we wed I believed my happiness to be made complete. I was so blinded by that same love, that same happiness, that I could not perceive that she kept her 'true' life secret from me." He slammed the Lipton bottle down on the table with such ferocity that Abbie jumped. He stood then, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"She chose not to entrust me with the knowledge of her involvement in matters of the occult; chose _not _to entrust me with her true motives for seeking out Lachlan Fredericks, nor his accursed manor…"

"_Crane_…" Abbie jumped in. "I know what Katrina did seems…wrong. A betrayal. But she kept the fact that she was a witch secret from you to _protect _you."

He turned and glowered at her in exasperation. She glared back.

"_Somehow_…this has to have made sense to her. _And_," she added, "been for the greater good."

Had she not been on the defensive, Abbie would have found it ironic that she, of all people, was now in the position of arguing _for _Katrina Crane. She knew little of Katrina's character based on their one meeting, but she knew enough to conclude that this witch would not have kept something from her husband unless she felt it _absolutely necessary_. The least Abbie could do was voice her opinion on this. However, her tiredness was wearing on her patience, and she had the fast-mounting urge to just get up and go to bed; leave the conversation alone for tonight. Crane, of course, would never be so complacent.

"We made a covenant when we were married. Among other promises, we pledged our honesty to each other." His voice had returned to its quieter cadence, though he still stood. "Why would she so easily abandon those promises? Why not disclose to me that she was carrying a child – that she carried my _son_?" He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

"I acknowledge your contention, Miss Mills. But at present, I…I cannot fathom how Katrina's infidelity might ever be justified as 'for the greater good.'" He dropped his hand and blinked once at the floor. He looked lost. Abbie didn't have an answer for him, but she couldn't see him despairing again, either. She laid a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Okay…" she began, "So everything sucks right now." He glanced at her petite fingers where they rested on his arm, but he didn't comment. She continued.

"I'll tell you what I do know. I know…" she sighed, "…that I experienced a lot of what you're going through right now just after Corbin died. First thing: it's _always_ worse when you're still raw." She looked up meaningfully at Crane. He didn't deny it. She squeezed his arm reassuringly and continued.

"When I found all of his hidden files, and I realized that _all that time we'd been partners,_ he'd never _once _confided any of that information to me." She sniffed. "And it hurt, let me tell you. The feeling of being betrayed; distrusted, and the loneliness that comes with that – all stacked on top of the fact that I missed him so damn much." She smiled through the sudden urge to cry. She took a deep breath to ease some of the tightness in her throat. "But then…"

Ichabod turned when she didn't immediately continue. "But what?"

Abbie leveled her gaze with his. "But then I started thinking about what kind of a person Corbin was when he was alive. You know…" she used her other hand to illustrate, "his character. What he valued, who he loved, what impression he gave when he spoke to you. The idiosyncrasies," she added, "that not many people saw."

She dropped her hold on his arm. "Thinking about who he was didn't help me find any answers for why he kept so much of his research a secret from me. But…" she spoke with fierce conviction, "it made me remember that the Corbin that I knew would not keep things from me if he didn't have a _damn _good reason for it."

Abbie nodded to herself. "And that gave me peace. Because even if I _never_ know all the answers, I know _him_. And that's…all I need right now." She glanced at Crane. She could see him turning her words over in his head as he stood, unmoving.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned into her hand before she could help it. She cast a diplomatic glance at the unoccupied fold-out. _Screw it._

Succumbing to weariness, and pep-talk _over, _she grabbed a pillow and crawled up to the top corner of the empty mattress, where she propped herself up against the couch cushions. She closed her eyes and folded her hands across her stomach while she waited for his response. Seconds later she heard the mattress creak and felt it dip under her, and she cracked an eyelid. Crane had stretched out parallel to her on the makeshift bed, keeping a good twelve inches between them, and was staring up at the ceiling. His conjoined palms rested pensively against his chin.

"You can tell me about her, if you think it would help." Abbie murmured, eyes closed. "Maybe…if you talked about the Katrina _you _knew…some of this might start making more sense."

There was a long silence from Crane's side. Abbie suspected he had fallen asleep, and was about to open her eyes and check when he surprised her by speaking.

"As I told you once before, when we met she disliked me intensely."

Abbie smiled. "Don't worry about it, Crane. It was about the same for me." She heard him chuckle familiarly.

"Be that as it may…" he continued, "Katrina's reasons for disliking me were of a much greater…_moral _nature than yours. That is, she disliked me not for who I was but for how I acted. I was fighting alongside the British at the time, so her disparagement was more than warranted. That day I was granted my first glimpse at her character."

Abbie shifted into a more comfortable position, on her side with her knees drawn up close to her stomach. "And you liked her." she prodded.

"Straight away. She was one of the handsomest women that I had ever beheld, and was remarkably passionate for a Quaker. The only hindrance to pursuing her lay in that her passions existed for the weaker, less just cause." He made a soft humming sound. "At least, that was my initial opinion." He paused momentarily, before carrying on briskly. "As you know, soon after, I providentially switched alliances. Katrina openly endangered her safety by harboring me, a traitor to the crown, immediately after my conversion."

"S'a selfless act." Abbie muttered.

"Undeniably." Crane agreed.

"She was…amicable, seemly,… Beautiful, of course. She'd not been born to excessive wealth, but she held herself with all the elegance and social charms of a lady born to the new American aristocracy."

"Hm." Abbie grunted her assent as she snuggled deeper into her pillow.

Crane fell mysteriously silent as she settled herself. Once she'd finished he spoke again.

"She only exhibited her spirit, her precise passion, during moments when the rights of our nation's citizens, male or female, of any racial background, had been cast into ambiguity. Her opinions were founded on her unorthodox Quaker upbringing, as well as her strong moral principles."

Abbie felt herself drifting off, but she struggled weakly to stay focused on Ichabod's narrative.

"And so…" he breathed quietly, "owing to these admirable traits and a mutual fondness for each other, when Katrina confessed her love to me…it was only natural that my feelings for her would blossom from liking to love."

He became quiet.

"…understand now…" Abbie managed to mumble.

"Understand what?"

He sounded like she'd pulled him from some brooding thought.

"Why you loved her…" she sighed. "I didn't know…I mean, for 'moment I was wond'rin…"

She thought she heard him snort lightly – at her actual words or her garbled delivery, she wasn't sure. She was beyond caring, anyways.

Moments or hours passed, she couldn't tell. A blanket was pulled over her shoulder, and she instinctively rolled into its warmth.

The stiff groaning of the box spring was the last sound Abbie heard.

**So I finally finished this chapter...and it's three in the morning. So this whole chapter could just be a very long string of consciousness. Or gibberish. Either way, I hope you enjoyed yourself. ;)**


	3. Ordeal

It was the cold that woke her. Abbie curled more tightly into herself with a small shiver, and fought to return to dreamland for just a few more precious minutes. She fumbled around for her wool throw and found it bunched at her feet, along with her socks.

_How does that even happen? _she internally griped as she pulled the blanket to her chin. Her elbow touched the space next to her, and she felt warmth emanating from the mattress. She immediately scooted over and melted into the cocoon of warmth with a contented sigh. It took her a few seconds to realize that the space should have been occupied, and that the mattress was somewhat less crowded than she'd thought. Her fuzzy head popped off of the pillow like a kernel of Jiffy in a hot pan. Thin slits of moonlight peeked through the wooden blinds. The light and shadow lay on the wooden floor like stark prison stripes.

"Crane?" she whispered.

No answer. The bed was empty, as was the floor. She double-checked the floor to be sure.

"Crane, you here?"

The apartment was silent; most likely empty. Except for Jenny, of course.

_Ughhhhh. _Abbie rubbed her hand over her eyes in frustration. Why, why, _why _was she on a fold-out couch and not in her own bed? She cringed – literally _cringed _– at the mental image of Crane sneaking out of her apartment after she'd all but fallen asleep on his shoulder. What the hell was she thinking? The man was married, and….and she just didn't feel for him that way. Didn't _need him_…that way. Just…

She shook her head vigorously and covered her mouth with her hand.

"Ergh…" she growled into her palm. _Stupid, stupid…_

A crow called loudly outside, effectively silencing her inner monologue _and _scaring the shit out of her – all in one go. She shuddered.

Abbie shoved the blankets away and swung her legs over the side of the mattress. She snatched her balled-up socks from the sheets and returned them to her feet, before moving over to the lamp and clicking it on. The switch turned with a cold 'click', but the bulb remained dead. She tried it twice more.

"Click."

"Click."

Nothing.

_A power outage? _Confused, she carefully picked her away over to the window and used the light to check her watch. The bronze hour and minute hands were frozen beneath the scuffed glass; stopped cold at _1:59 AM_. She held the piece up to her ear and shook it. The second hand refused to budge.

"Huh." She mentally reminded herself to pick up a new battery later.

Suddenly she heard the creaking of floorboards. The noise came from directly behind her. She spun, her hand going for her gun but finding nothing but the elastic waistband of her navy sweatpants. The room was empty. Abbie swallowed. She squinted into the darkness, before ducking her head briefly to grab her gun from the low table. She switched the safety off and tucked it against her side as she advanced slowly towards the hallway. She backed up against the wall and peered around the corner. The hallway was an endless black hole, giving nothing away. Abbie strained her eyes to see, but could make nothing out. After a few seconds pause, she eased into the passage.

She halted when a second creak came from down the hall. It sounded like it was coming from directly in front of her. It echoed off the paneled walls and drilled against Abbie's skull like the beginnings of a migraine.

"Jenny?" Her low voice barely made a dent in the stillness. There was no answer. She tried the hall light switch, but to no avail.

She shivered convulsively. The hallway was suddenly freezing, like she had accidentally stumbled outside. She could feel the goose bumps forming on her bare arms.

Abbie swung open Jenny's door as she passed and peeked in. Her sister's bed was empty. This wouldn't be the first time her sister had disappeared to god-knows nowhere in the middle of the night, but she usually left a note. Abbie debated checking the kitchen table. As she backed out of the room, she was distracted by a faint, flickering yellow glow coming from underneath her bedroom door. She started towards it, keeping close to the wall. Suddenly something wet and ice-cold splattered on her cheek. She looked up at the hall ceiling, but could see only black. Something cold and wet landed on her forehead. Abbie raised her finger to the droplet and then brought it to her tongue to taste. She tasted iron, copper, and salt. _Blood_.

"Oh…" Abbie inhaled quickly to keep from gagging.

She felt another drop land on the top of her head. Then one landed on her shoulder. And another and another. The sickly sweet odor of fresh blood filled her nostrils to bursting. The fat, icy droplets rained down on her from the ceiling with a vengeance, matting her hair and soaking her t-shirt in seconds. The walls of the hallway groaned, and Abbie shrieked and stepped away as the one she was leaning against began undulating beneath her back. Both walls suddenly began closing in. The groaning sound grew to an ear-shattering pitch.

Inescapable terror crawled beneath Abbie's skin and sent her dashing to her bedroom door. By the small amount of light escaping from within, she could see her puffs of breath floating in the glacial temperature like ghosts. Steeling herself for whatever lay beyond the door, she cocked her gun and twisted the knob.

Abbie stepped into her room and, after checking for movement and finding none, eagerly shut the door behind her. The hallway and the apartment returned the complete silence the second her door clicked shut.

She looked down at her clothes – all soaked through with crimson. The only light in the room to see by came from a single, white candle. It sat, burning, on the floor near the wall, across from her bed. Abbie surveyed the rest of the room as she stepped towards the light. Everything was normal. She crouched slowly by the candle, and tried to ignore the red splatters dotting the hard wood floor around it as they dripped from her hair and clothes.

After scanning the room one more time, Abbie licked the fingers of her left hand and reached out to extinguish the tiny flame. Just as her hand was about to close over the flame, the wall next to the candle ruptured. A gnarled, dirt-encrusted tree root burst through the drywall, sending dust, splinters, and the candle flying across the room. The root snaked around her wrist so tightly that it felt as if the bones were being broken. Another branch shot out, knocking her gun from her hand. It skidded across the floor and disappeared under the bed.

Abbie couldn't hold back her shriek as more roots ripped through the wall, grasping her other arm, her waist, legs, and neck. The arms retracted and pulled her viciously through the wall and down through the building. Layer after layer of wood and insulation, Abbie was yanked through and down into darkness. She screamed.

Suddenly, the arms disappeared – and she was free-falling. She clawed blindly at the empty air, but couldn't get a hand hold. The next second she slammed face-down into mud, ending her descent.

Once the excruciating pain had eased enough in her limbs that she could move them again, Abbie was scrambling to her knees and gasping. The air was thick with the too-familiar stink of plant mold. She cradled her bad wrist to her chest and rose on shaking legs. Her good hand reached out, feeling for any sort of wall or barrier that she could use to get her bearings. She found nothing.

"Sonofa _BITCH!_"

Something cracked to her right. She swung around, peering into the darkness. A distorted shape came into focus. Abbie stepped closer, warily.

"What…the…"

She saw a cluster of roots tightening like anacondas over a vague, limp figure. She stepped closer and saw a hand.

_No, no, no no no..._

Her mouth formed the words over and over but no sound escaped as she began madly clawing at the nest with her one good hand. She added her other hand to the effort when she didn't break through the roots fast enough.

_No…No…_

A large branch snapped, and the nest opened completely to reveal what was inside.

Crane's blue eyes, cold and lifeless, stared through her from where he hung, suspended against the wall of the building. He had been impaled through the chest with a tree branch. An unearthly screech sent her whirling around. The root demon slowly, leisurely, emerged from the shadows. Its beady black eyes assessed her for a half-second. Then its sharp fingers lashed out towards her throat.

Abbie's eyes snapped open and she shot up from her pillow like a bullet. Her hands shook where they were clutching her blanket and she was gasping. _Oh my god…_

"Crane!" she rasped before she could help herself. Her voice sounded like she was being strangled. She smacked her hand over her mouth, shocked at herself. _He was…he was… _She turned her head. Crane was lying on his stomach across from her, with his arms and legs splayed in four different directions. His eyes were closed and he hadn't so much as moved at her outburst; by all appearances, he was dead to the world.

She watched a moment to make sure he was breathing, then hid her face in her hands and tried to quiet her own breaths.

"Whoo…" she exhaled shakily.

Her mind was tripping over itself in a desperate attempt to focus on what she knew was real. She swept her hair out of her face. This was real. These blankets were real. This apartment was real.

She wasn't shivering; she was sweating. Crane was alive, and all of the walls were intact. With a desperate thought, Abbie brought her watch up to her ear. She breathed a sigh of relief to hear it ticking away.

"Just a dream." she whispered.

_Get a hold of yourself, Mills. _

She shook her hair out behind her shoulders and cracked her neck from side to side. Crane's left arm twitched near her foot, catching her attention. Abbie hesitated, then delicately caught his wrist between her thumb and index finger and moved it away from her corner of the bed. She snorted as she surveyed his bizarre sleeping position. He'd hardly left any space for her at all, save one small corner. That was where she now tucked her legs under herself and arranged the blanket over her knees.

She studied his face objectively as she settled in. His bangs were almost completely covering his eyes, but every exhalation stirred them away from his face. During those seconds, she glimpsed the dark circles under his eyes, and sunken cheeks. He looked exhausted. It explained why her almost-shout hadn't woken him. And he was _always_ a light sleeper – a relic of his soldiering days, she had no doubt. Tonight had evidently been an ordeal for both of them. Her mouth twisted unhappily.

It surprised her that Crane was even still next to her – that he hadn't moved from the mattress to the floor already. He would have tactfully called it "preserving her reputation", and he would have been stubborn as a mule about it. Abbie smiled wryly. She hated to break it to him, but it was impossible to preserve something that never existed in the first place. She gazed thoughtfully at his profile. Her logical side knew that she should move to her own room now – if only to eliminate any possibility of her sister walking in on the two of them sharing a fold-out couch. She grimaced at the scenario and threw a glance at the hallway behind her. It was darker than in her nightmare. The longer she stared at the threshold, the more real the memory of the low ceiling leaking blood became in her mind. It was like she could still taste it…

_Nope_. _I am not doing that again tonight._ 'Reputation' be damned; at the moment she would have willingly pulled a tooth before walking down that hallway.

She pulled the blanket up to her chin and rolled over to her side so that she was facing Crane, while leaving as much space between them as she could afford under the cramped conditions. On impulse, she reached out and dexterously smoothed his tousled bangs away from his face. Once she was satisfied, she closed her eyes and endeavored to get a few hours in before sunrise.

She was just dozing off when his left knee jerked suddenly, running into her shin. Using her body weight as leverage, she shoved it back to his side with her foot – maybe a bit too enthusiastically. Crane restlessly rolled over, giving her his back. Abbie stretched out her arms and legs triumphantly, grateful for the extra space as well as the warmth, before drifting off again.**  
**

**Hi friends. Okay, this is kind of a short one.**

** You may have liked this chapter, or you may not have. I know that it ends a tad awkwardly, but I was trying to be objective about the situation and true to Abbie's personality. ****I didn't want to sound too Ichabbie, but sorry to all the Ichatrina shippers out there if I did!**

**PLEASE let me know specifically what you liked. One more chapter is coming, and then this fic will be finished! :) Stay classy!**


	4. Thankful

Yellow sunlight glared behind Abbie's closed eyelids, warming her cheeks until she was sweating. Abbie groaned and threw her arm over her face to try and block out the unholy glare. She flopped over onto her stomach and felt around for blindly for her pillow. _Mmm…where is it, where is it…_ Her thoughts fumbled across each other like crossing ripples in a pond. A vast expanse of sheets was all that met her searching palm.

_Where's Crane? _She opened her eyes. The golden light had slid through the shuttered windows and pooled around her on the empty mattress. Abbie groggily rolled over to peek over the edge of the bed. The floor was empty. She checked her watch. Her bleary eyes couldn't make out the hands clearly, but it looked like they were resting somewhere around 10:25 AM. She grunted in surprise and swung her legs over the side of the bed, kicking her balled-up socks and blanket to the floor in the process. The hard wood floor felt cool beneath her bare feet. Resting her elbows on her knees, Abbie dropped her heavy head in her hands. Her temples were pounding, her mouth dry as cotton. _What a crappy night's sleep. _No wonder she'd just woken up.

She'd begun absently finger-combing her mussed hair when she smelled it. _Smoke. _Instantly, she was on her feet, heading to the kitchen. She walked in and immediately had to cover her watering eyes and mouth as she coughed.

"Jenny?" She cried, blinking rapidly through the film of smoke "Crane?"

"Aw, _fuck_." Her sister's voice came from just behind her. Jenny shoved her way around her and snatched an oven mitt off the counter. She cranked open the rusty oven door and a wave of heather fumes poured out like fog.

"Shut it – shut it!" Abbie coughed, waving her free hand in front of her. The smoke alarm started blaring above them.

"One _second_…" Jenny shouted to be heard above the high-pitched beeping. Abbie felt for a kitchen chair and dragged it across the floor to the smoke detector. She scrambled atop it and popped the cover off the device. She had just ripped the batteries out when she heard the oven door slam behind her.

The shrill ringing in her ears made her feel less than steady on her feet, but Abbie managed to climb down off the chair without incident. She turned to find Jenny blowing smoke off of a turkey-sized lump of aluminum foil and waving an oven mitt over it like a magical charm. Abbie rushed back into the living room and threw open the windows. She breathed in the crisp New York air and fanned it into the room while she waited for her eyes to stop watering.

"Jenny!" she called from the window. "I know living here is not your first choice, but that doesn't mean you're allowed to burn my apartment to the ground."

"_Ha – freaking_ – _ha_." Her sister called from the kitchen. She sounded so stressed-out, Abbie laughed. She cautiously padded back to the kitchen, lingering in the doorway.

"Whatcha doing?" She surveyed the dim room, noting for the first time that Crane's tall boots were no longer leaning by the front door. "Where's Crane?"

"He's out buying me some lacy underwear." Jenny snarked as she gravely examined the torso of the poor bird.

"Now _that's _funny." Abbie deadpanned.

"I don't know" Jenny tried again. "He was gone when I got up."

Abbie nodded silently, not really surprised by the information.

"And that was how long ago?"

She got no response, as Jenny cagily peeled back a strip of aluminum foil. Abbie stepped forward, intrigued. "Is that a real turkey?"

"It _was_…" Jenny began as she peeled off more aluminum, revealing a dark brown – but not black – bird beneath. "…and it still is." She finished triumphantly. Abbie gave her a silent round of applause. Jenny tried to scowl, but her obvious relief ruined the sarcasm. She glanced from the adequately-cooked bird to the oven. "A carrot or something must have fallen out of the roaster and started burning. That's where the smoke started."

As she spoke she shoved the roasting pan over to the other side of the counter and cracked open the fridge. "I just wanted to get the turkey done early, you know. Before Frank and the others get here."

_Frank? Since when do we call him 'Frank'? _Abbie raised an eyebrow, but refrained from asking.

"Well, 10:30 is definitely a new record for having the turkey cooked." She remarked instead.

"Uh-huh." Jenny answered distractedly. Abbie could hear her rummaging around in the crisper. Seconds later she appeared with her arms full of a boxed pie, a bag of salad, and three different dressings.

"Again…" Abbie eyed the food. "It is _10:30 _in the morning…"

"There's nothing wrong with being prepared." Jenny brushed her off as she spread the items out on the counter. Abbie slid the pie box over to her side.

"Gluten-free, huh?"

"Yeah, well…" her sister shrugged, "I figured that I might as well balance out the turkey meat we'll be gorging ourselves on with some 'safe' pie."

Abbie snorted. "Heaven forbid real turkey meat be eaten on _Thanksgiving_."

"You're damn right heaven forbid." Her sister rejoined. "Do you _know _how many chemicals they pump into those birds before they kill them?"

"I don't know," Abbie said as she planted her hip against the table, "but they are _delicious_." Her sister rolled her eyes and tossed her the salad bag – a little more roughly than was necessary, but Abbie wasn't about to complain.

"Be useful. Help me with the salad."

"Actually…" Abbie stalled, turning the bag over in her hands before laying it on the table, "I'm gonna get dressed and go check in at the precinct. See if they need me for anything before…the holiday starts."

"You mean you're gonna go look for Crane." Jenny affirmed flippantly. Abbie flashed her a look, which she returned evenly as she grabbed back the salad. "I kid, Abbie."

"However…" She held the bag over a plastic bowl and ripped it open. "Even if there isn't anything going on between you two, I know you worry about him."

"That's not it." Abbie disagreed. "This is only a special circumstance." Jenny raised a skeptical eyebrow. Abbie persisted.

"He – we _both _experienced a lot last night, and I just don't want him doing anything irrational. Like isolating himself from the people that know him."

"And that's _us_?" Jenny replied scathingly. Abbie pursed her lips. She didn't know how to respond to that one. She stepped back and drummed her fingers on the table as an awkward silence settled over the diminutive space.

"Oh yeah, I forgot to ask." Jenny began again, lamely. "What exactly happened last night?" She leaned across the counter in Abbie's direction and crossed her forearms over each other, expectant. Abbie rolled her head to one shoulder, then the other; cracking the small vertebrae. Finally, she spoke.

"Long story short: Crane now has a son."

"_What_?" Jenny's eyes grew large with questions. "You don't mean he –"

Abbie held her hand up. "Wait, correction: he _had _a son."

"Oh." Jenny stopped to think. "From his…past life? From the 1700's?" Abbie nodded.

"His wife – Katrina – bore this child not long after she had to put Crane in the ground. We visited the house where she went for refuge, and while we were there…among other things, I saw…a vision."

"A vision?" Jenny probed. She seemed amazed that Abbie was talking so glibly about this. Hell, Abbie was amazed at herself. She'd come a long ways in trusting the evidence of her own eyes. It had only been a few short weeks, but suddenly anything was possible.

"Or something close to that." Abbie sighed. "In my…vision…I saw Katrina come to this house, and give birth. The child was Ichabod's, it was a son, _and_…she had never even told him that she was pregnant." She stopped to let her sister soak that in.

"_Wow_." Jenny gaped. Her eyes dropped to the linoleum countertop, lost in various trains of thought. They finally stilled as a new thought occurred. "What I wouldn't have given to see the look on his –"

"No you wouldn't." Abbie finished, dead serious. Jenny met her gaze, clearly surprised by the hard edge in her tone. Abbie shook her head. "I was there, Jenny. If you had seen his expression...It was like I was looking at myself; or at you. On that day in the woods when we first saw that "thing". It was like seeing the fear and the doubt and the uncertainty all over again, only this time it was being reflected in _his _eyes." Jenny's jaw tightened and she nodded to show that she understood. Abbie looked down.

"And it's not something that I would want to see ever again, although I'm sure it's not going to be the last time. For either of us." She smiled with grim humor.

"I'd better get going." She turned to head to her room.

"Hey." Her sister's voice stopped her. She turned back and saw Jenny come out from behind the counter, hands at her sides. She stopped near the doorframe.

"I'm sorry, you know?" She shrugged beneath her dark plum hoodie. "Tell Ichy, if you see him."

Abbie smiled, and worked to make her expression a bit more festive. "I will."

5 minutes in the shower, 5 minutes deciding what the wear, 10 minutes doing her makeup, and 20 shame-faced minutes doing her hair, and Abbie was finally walking out the door.

"Pick up some booze while you're out!" Jenny managed to call out before the front door slammed.

_If I were him, where would I go? _Abbie thought dubiously as she pulled out of the apartment parking lot. _I'm not him, so I have no clue. _She called his cell twice as she pulled on to the main road. He didn't answer. _He needs to start answering…_ she thought as the voicemail beeped.

"Hey Crane, it's Abbie. I'm just checking in to make sure the you're – that everything's…that you're safe. Are you safe?" She waited a second; for what, she didn't know. Not a reply, obviously.

"Anyways, I'll probably see you in a few minutes, so…yes. I'll see you. Then. Okay." She paused. "Bye."

She skirted the town and took the road to Crane's cabin first. After using her master key to get in and poke around, she ascertained that he definitely wasn't there. Next, she checked the churchyard. The main chapel was closed for the holiday, but the cemetery was open to visitors. Katrina's grave was unoccupied; the ground around it untended. Abbie stooped to pull up the few stubborn weeds that had sprouted at the base of the stone, and to brush away a few fallen leaves. She stood at the grave for an immeasurable time, before returning to her car.

She resigned to check in at the precinct before searching further. On the way she passed a small liquor store, and stopped to pick up something for her sister before she forgot. She browsed the poorly-lit aluminum shelves, bouncing from sweet merlots to vodkas. Personally she preferred a strong, fiery bourbon to any fancy spirits, but they were having company over. She picked out a decent-looking red estate wine for Jenny, and some Jim Bean for her next night off. On her way to the register, she spotted a solitary bottle stored on the top shelf. The gray, worn label boasted a charcoal etching of a Kraken fiercely demolishing a colonial ship. Or perhaps it was only a large octopus, and instead of 'demolishing', it was only hugging the vessel very tightly. Regardless, she immediately recognized the logo. Crane had mentioned it as his favorite brand of rum; one of a scant few that had actually survived from the 1700s to the present day. On impulse, she hopped up on the lowest shelf and, using it as a stepstool, snatched the $30 bottle from its perch. She stared down the cashier who was looking at her like she was a black, female Tarzan and added it to her purchases.

If she was ever going to successfully keep Crane from his self-imposed isolation, having a little leverage on him wouldn't hurt.

It was only after clocking in, as she was checking the archives, that Abbie finally stumbled upon the man. He was sitting cross-legged in a corner, against one of the numerous bookshelves; seemingly immersed in a hard-bound 18th century atlas. His coat was folded on a shelf nearby, and his hair still hung, relatively unkempt, around his drawn features.

"Hey," she began, "There you are." He looked up as she settled on the arm of a winged-back leather chair.

"So I'm thinking Jenny's burnt turkey and gluten-free pumpkin pie might be just what you need to lift your spirits." She grinned cheesily as she waited for his response.

A ghost of a smile flitted across Crane's features, but he looked otherwise unconvinced.

"Okay…" Abbie admitted, "it's not the _greatest _sales pitch…" She trailed off when he remained silent.

"There will be rum." She added optimistically, and raised the bottle that she'd brought in with her. "It's your favorite." His eyes alighted on the label.

"Barbadian Best Amber." He smiled, more genuinely, in recognition. "I believe I would not have survived Valley Forge without it."

Abbie smiled in return. After a moment, Crane humbly looked away. "I'm much obliged, Miss Mills." He spread his hand against a parchment page of the book, ever contemplative. "But in my present state, I fear I would not be pleasant company."

Abbie looked down, sensing his pain in his voice and his actions. It stung that she hadn't yet managed to cheer him up, even a little. It reminded her, oddly enough, of the many sad Thanksgivings that she and her sister had suffered as children. If she couldn't alleviate his pain, the least she could do was assure him, again, that he was not alone in it.

Abbie set down the rum and plopped down in the cranberry-red chair, near where he sat.

"Look," she began, "Thanksgiving isn't easy for everyone. When I was a kid…I remember walking down the street; passing houses on my block. Looking in windows." she explicated. "Seeing people; families sitting around tables. Laughing, carving turkeys." She leaned back in her chair as the rush of memories washed over her. The feelings were all so familiar, as if only yesterday she'd been a young girl in foster care, pining for a real family.

"It was just so envious." She admitted. "I wanted that. More than anything."

"I had it." She looked up when Crane spoke. His eyes were animated with vivid remembrance; his voice passionate.

"Back in England." He clarified. "During my father's holidays from teaching at Oxford, I would sit by the hearth…" He used a hand to illustrate the words. "…and he would regale me with…_glorious _tales of ancient Greece."

Crane dropped his hand back to the faded pages, his expression turning reflective.

"And I really believed that I'd follow in his footsteps. I'd be a professor in my own right, yet upheld by his pride for me." He glanced at her again. "And that one day, I'd have a son…and I'd share that same comfort that I felt so freely."

Abbie searched her soul for some – for _any_ – inspiration. There was little to be had, but just enough to urge her to speak.

"I'm guessing that's what the point of this…is?" she ventured doubtfully, and then recovered with firmer resolve. "A time for reflection."

"You see what you have now…" She looked at him pointedly, keeping his gaze. "…and you embrace what's in front of you."

A small corner of Ichabod's mouth quirked appreciatively. And for Abbie, that was all she needed to assure her that she'd been right about him on some level. That he needed, more than anything else that she could offer him, and despite his protests, to know that he wasn't alone, and would not ever be. If it was in her power, she would easily spend the rest of her life assuring him of that.

"Oh, I nearly forgot." Crane exclaimed suddenly, breaking the weight of the moment. Putting the book aside, he rose to his feet and grabbed a brown package from the wooden table nearby. "This arrived for you this morning."

"More treasures from the Amazon, perhaps?" He inquired as he handed the box over and took a seat opposite her, in another cushioned chair. Abbie read the label, just as curious as he was.

"It's from Lena Gilbert." Abbie was shocked. She would not have been surprised had she never been contacted by Ms. Gilbert again, considering what they'd both experienced yesterday. The woman clearly had a much faster rebound rate than she'd given her credit for.

Her curiosity now raging, Abbie wasted no time tearing open the box and gingerly examining its contents. Ichabod eagerly joined her.

"The records from Fredericks Manor, throughout the years." Abbie realized as she lifted out a yellowed stack of documents.

"Documentation on Mrs. Grace Dixon, the manor's house matron." Crane murmured as he lifted out a thick packet. Abbie immediately recognized the name, and the woman who belonged to it; the house maid whom she had witnessed, in her vision, helping Katrina deliver her child and escape with him through the manor's wine cellar only moments after.

Crane retrieved a single sheet of paper from the bottom of the box. "A list of her progeny." He studied the sheet.

"A family tree."

He gave the simple, generational tree design an approving glance before before handing it over for her to have a look. Abbie accepted the paper and skimmed the names, not looking for any one in particular. However a single name, near the lower right-hand corner of the page, immediately drew her gaze. She silently handed the document back to Crane. He looked up questioningly, and she tapped the page with her finger.

"Lori Roberts." She squeezed out of a tight throat. He still didn't understand, of course. She swallowed and continued.

"My mother."

Comprehension dawned. "You're a descendant of Grace Dixon." he uttered in amazement.

Abbie nodded, so overwhelmed by the gravity of this discovery. "My ancestor brought your son into this world."

"Quite heroically." Crane noted. He appraised her meaningfully. "I see the family resemblance."

His sincerity filled Abbie with a startling rush of pride; so much that she nearly looked away. Crane had the gift of playing her emotions like a harp without even perceiving it, and no matter how often they spoke, she feared she would never grow accustomed to the havoc his simple observations could wreak on her composure.

"It seems that, you and I…our paths were entwined from the very start." He observed reverently.

"It definitely would seem." Abbie agreed. In that moment, she was extraordinarily thankful that her path was inexplicably entwined with Ichabod Crane's, rather than with any other person that could have come her way. Strangely, incandescently, unexpectedly…she was thankful.

_You see what you have now…and you embrace what's in front of you._

Putting the box aside, she reached behind her for the rum bottle.

"We'll have a drink." She volunteered. Ichabod stood and grabbed two mugs, downing the contents of one in his haste to free it for use. Abbie couldn't help smiling at his enthusiasm. "To a day of giving thanks." She continued. She furnished his mug first, adding another generous drop of amber when he motioned that she pour a bit more. She then filled her own cup.

Both Witnesses raised their glasses.

"To family." Abbie proposed.

"To _finding _family." Ichabod amended softly.

Their twin mugs clinked together, sealing the salute between them. They drank.

**_Fin_**

**Hey y'all! So I decided to end the fic there, for now. I'm still debating whether to do an "Abbie and Crane finish the bottle of rum" bonus chapter. It would be very light and pleasant (i.e. no one will be getting completely shit-faced). **

**Please let me know if you're interested. :) Aside from that, I hope you've enjoyed this fiction. Remember to review, and stay classy. **


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